untitled, unfathomed.

I need a bottle. any bottle. I'll drink the rotgut piss of mexicans, scotts, germs or russians. I don't care. It's been awhile since I've wanted to drink myself to sleep, but bottle you have been there for me for 4 years now. Bottle, you are my lonesome only friend. You've also fucked me over when others get ahold of you but I'll let that go, that's them and other bottles, not my bottle. I should have known that night 3 years ago. When I convinced her to drink with me. I should have known where I'd be now. She got a nice buzz and I was already on my way to drunk... Her friends showed up and she left me. Just like she always did. She left.

I feel sick.

Something about this book is killing me a little bit with each chapter it seems, but I keep reading, I want it to turn around. Give me hope oh fictional book, While I may enjoy your truthful counterparts more because it's real, you've reeled me in. I need you as much as you need me to justify your publishing.

It's shit when you grow up with people asking you why you feel bad, what happened what went wrong and you have no answers, you just sit there with the streams rolling. So you stop. You get to the point where streams don't come anymore. You can bounce sadness off of you like a rain drop that never caressed your skin, as if you were covered in the water repellent they put in windshield fluid so it just beads up and rolls off as if it were never there. So then you have this thick skin over your emotion. Then when you actually feel something it almost feels good even though it hurts so much and you don't want it to end, you drag it out untill you are completely exhausted and can't do anything, pull yourself back up off the cool garage floor and piece yourself back together. Then you don't feel again for months or years.